


Falling From Grace

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a chance meeting with Trowa and half a night at the theatre, Quatre deals with his neuroses and eroding resiliency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling From Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Completed somewhere...after 2002 and before 2004?

His hand is on my leg. Does he know that it’s a leg, and that it’s my leg? Would he put his hand there if he did know? Maybe he already does know. Maybe he meant to put it there.

The theater is dark around us, and we’re in a separate box. He’s wearing something that’s probably a size too small for him that his sister altered, but he refuses to take any money from me, and he can’t afford a new suit. I don’t mind; I like him the way that he is.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye but he doesn’t seem to even notice; he loves this music. I wonder if he’s ever heard it played live, or if the first he ever heard was when I showed it to him. He just said that he liked it. Not that he had liked it before I let him listen to it, or that he realized at that moment that he liked it, just that he liked it. For Trowa, that could mean anything.

His hand is moving, I think. Maybe it’s not. I’m not sure now. Maybe he was just shifting... Yes, I think he uncrossed his legs. But does he think I’m an armrest, does he know what this is doing to me?

 _Stop it Quatre, don’t think of it that way._ He doesn’t mean it that way, and he trusts you. I’m betraying him by thinking these thoughts, by thinking that he meant to put his hand on my leg, by wanting him to. Could he know? Could he have found out, realized when I wasn’t looking? Oh God, what if he knows, what if he sees it when I look at him?

There’s noise in the theater as the orchestra stops and then moves to begin a new movement, and everyone sighs and stirs and does everything they need to do before assuming the quiet repose of listening again. He doesn’t move at all, he just sits there, calm and steady as always.

Oh God, there’s two more movements. Normally I love this piece, but I can’t concentrate with Trowa Barton’s hand planted on my leg. My lower leg, on my knee much less. How could anyone mistake a knee for an armrest? When the lights come up, I’ll just stretch and pretend I don’t notice. No, better yet, I’ll move away right now as if I’m stretching in between movements.

His hand slips off a little and then away as I turn to the side and stretch my legs, and he just lets it sit on the armrest of his seat. If he notices where his hand was he doesn’t give any indication, so I look at him a little bleary eyed. He just looks back at me, a strange uncertain look in his eyes, and I just smile a little and shrug, as if to say, Long, isn’t it?

“Do you want to go?” he whispers, and I forget my calm demeanor as his mouth brushes against my ear.

“Only if you don’t feel like listening to the rest,” I reply, and he shrugs. Trowa-speak for indifference.

“Let’s go,” I say. I need air or else I’m going to suffocate. “If you want to see the rest, they’re playing again on Saturday.”

The lobby is bright and it hurts my eyes as my shiny black shoes click across the marble floor, followed by Trowa’s slightly slower and silent stride behind me. I hate it when he walks behind me. I stop and wait, and then he walks up to my side and we walk together out the doors, and I notice he’s wearing brown shoes with his black too-small tuxedo. He looks more wonderful than anything I’ve ever seen.

It’s raining a little outside and it’s getting colder, and another year is passing since we stopped fighting. Fall is coming, at least for this city.

“You’re getting wet,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I know,” I reply, “it’s okay. This has to be cleaned anyway.”

He just nods and then a street light catches his attention above us, the light radiating in a fuzzy glow from where some fog has began to set in. Are we saying goodbye, now? It was mere coincidence that we were both here on business at the same time, and that I had seen a flyer for the concert tonight. I don’t want to leave things like this, with an abrupt exit I still don’t know the reason for, and my wet knees still tingling from Trowa’s fingers.

“Do you want to come back with me to dry off?” I offer. Does that sound like a pick-up line? Did I just invite Trowa back to my hotel room?

“I— okay,” he sort of stutters, as if unsure of what he wants to say.

“Are you feeling alright?” I ask, trying to sound conversational. I know that’s a pretty futile effort when I’m dealing with Trowa, though.

“Yes, fine,” he gives me a wary sidelong glance through the cover of his hair as if I’m going insane, “why?”

“No reason,” I shrug it off lightly, and shiver in the rain. Trowa doesn’t say anything, just offers the coat he’s carrying draped over one arm. I nod and offer a small smile of gratitude, and I’m enveloped in quintessential Trowa then and there as I pull it on.

Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and suddenly I don’t give a damn if it’s raining or snowing.

 _Cut it out, Quatre._

I tell myself to shut the hell up and keep walking.

We’re almost the same height now, and his coat actually fits me. I look over at him, and notice his hair is getting plastered to his forehead. People stare at us as we pass, and Trowa just ignores them. He’s good at that.

We reach the hotel and I’m glad that my room is on the first floor so I don’t have to go any further in a pair of sopping wet dress shoes. We pass through the art deco lobby which is similar to the theatre’s and Trowa is walking beside me this time. We make our way around the corner and down the labyrinthine of hallways; he remembers exactly where the room is when he had met me before. He’s only been here once.

I slip the keycard into the door and the green light flashes. We’re met with the harsh gust of air conditioning and even he shivers a little, so I make my way over to the control panel and turn on the heat. The rain drums drolly on the window pane where it looks out over the sidewalk, a few feet above ground level. The windows in this old hotel are high, and if I crane my neck I can look up and nearly see the tops of the buildings around us.

Instead, I turn to Trowa and take off his coat, folding it over the back of a chair to dry out. Turning to him, I realize that he’s already taken off his shoes and then is just standing there, looking at me expectantly.

“You can stay the night if you don’t want go all the way back to the circus in the rain, “ I blurt out before I can keep my mouth in check. Of all things, he just shrugs and then nods, not even blinking. He looks at me like I’m crazy for telling him he can dry off in my hotel room, but doesn’t even blink when I ask him to stay the night. Maybe I’ll never understand Trowa.

“The first thing I want is a shower,” I declare, and then say, “but you can have it first if you want.” He looks tense for some reason, and I just smile at him a little to lighten the atmosphere. Yes, carefree. No big deal. We’ve shared hotel rooms before, we’ve shared beds before. Why is this any different?

“No, go ahead,” he offers, and then doesn’t say anything else. I shrug.

“Okay, but let me grab you a towel first.” I head into the bathroom and everything is shiny white tile, and it hurts my eyes. I grab a towel and turn the hot water on full blast absent mindedly as I pass by the shower stall, hearing the spray start up. I’m hoping it will be steamy by the time I get back.

When I come back out Trowa is only wearing his pants and I offer him the towel without a second glance. He shrinks back a little even though I’m not leering at him, but that’s just Trowa for you. His nature is a cautious one.

“Thanks,” he says, and runs the towel over his shoulders which I suddenly notice have gotten a lot broader since I last saw him without a shirt on. Yes, the last time I saw him without a shirt on was totally platonic, and no, I didn’t want it to be.

“Sure,” I say, and grow tired of our sparse conversation that is beginning to sound strained. So I head into the bathroom to warm up, and breathe a sigh of relief as I strip out of my damp, cold clothes. The water feels nothing short of heavenly against my skin, and I’m sure I’ll be bright red when I get out, but I don’t care at this point.

For a while everything is quiet, and I just lean one hand against the shower wall and let my head hang, the hot water lashing at my back. The physical stress wears off and washes out, but the mental anxiety will not go away. Knowing Trowa is right on the other side of the wall... I have to stop my thoughts right there, especially since I’m not wearing any clothes.

I hear a knock at the door suddenly and my head snaps up; I think I heard something crack. Rubbing a hand over the back of my neck irritably, my eyes squeeze shut tensely and I call to come in.

I can hear the door open, but judging from the short sound it’s probably only about an inch.

“Trowa?”

“Yes,” he says quietly, and I can barely hear him over the sound of the shower.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s someone here to deliver some files to you,” he says, “and they will only accept your signature.”

I will not curse. I will not yell. I will calmly put on a towel and get out, and sign for my papers. Mission set, goal in sight. God, I used to be so relaxed.

“Okay,” I say, and turn off the spray. Damn.

The door shuts, and I look around for something to put on. Suit not an option, so I opt for a towel and figure the assumptions or consequences be damned. Wrapping one of the white towels around my waist, the biggest one I can find, I open the bathroom door and steam pours out.

Trowa just raises an eyebrow at me from under his hair that is starting to dry, and a nervous looking young woman stares at me. Her eyes flick over my chest and back up to my face, and she gets red when she realizes she just checked out the infamous Winner heir.

“Where do I need to sign?” I’m trying very hard not to sound agitated, but I must succeed because she loses some of the tension in her features and smiles. She’s actually pretty when she doesn’t look so perplexed.

“Right here,” she says, pointing at the bottom of a clipboard, and offers a pen. Once the papers are signed and she’s gone, I throw the dossier of paperwork on the bed. Trowa just surveys me and the abrupt change of expression on my face silently.

“I’m going back to finish my shower,” I state, feeling perturbed, but then I just feel foolish when I look at Trowa.

He just stares at me, and I stare at him, and then I realize that he’s staring at my chest the same way the girl was. “I knew that it wasn’t the armrest,” he blurts out, and then just looks at me. He doesn’t even look surprised at his own statement, but I know he didn’t mean to say it.

“What did you think it was?” I ask, grasping the towel around my waist more tightly, and I’m sure that my knuckles are turning as white as the tile in the bathroom and that my face is turning as red as the rest of my flushed body.

He doesn’t answer, because he knows that I know. He meant to put his hand on my leg. He meant to rest his fingers on my knee, and curl them a little when the crescendos came in the music, and suddenly I realize I don’t have to feel guilty for thinking of him that way anymore.

“Let’s talk about this in a little while,” I say softly, knowing that this isn’t going to be a five minute conversation I want to try and have wearing a towel and an irritated expression. He nods, and then just sits on the bed and looks at the wall.

I give up five minutes later of trying to relieve the tension that has now traveled from my mind back into my body with a shower and climb out, drying off and opening the door.

Trowa has managed to scrounge up a generic hotel robe and he’s looking out the window now, watching the rain. I know he can see my reflection and hear the door, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Why did you pull away?” he says from where he’s standing, back still facing me and looking pensive.

I sit down on the edge of the bed feeling world weary and shrug a little, knowing there have to be dark shadows under my eyes by now. “I didn’t know if you thought my knee was an armrest.”

“Do you wish that I had put my hand on the armrest instead?” he asked, turning around to look at me, his eyes full of embarrassment and frustration.

“No,” I reply, and my voice comes out as a meek whisper. Talk about an incriminating statement.

He doesn’t say anything in response to that, but does come over and sit down next to me. His hands lightly land on my shoulders, and he digs his thumbs into my shoulder blades. Nothing has ever felt so good.

“Ah,” is my syllabic hissed response, “I didn’t know you knew how to do this.”

He lets his hands travel over my shoulders, up to my neck and then down my spine to just behind my ribs. “Does it feel good?” he asked, sounding unsure.

“Yeah,” I replied lazily, my eyes closed and I didn’t feel like articulating anything right then. “It feels great.”

“What do you want to talk about?” he asks softly, but his hands keep moving and his fingers brush the front of ribs and then make their way up my sternum.

“Mm,” I mumble, half-asleep. “I don’t remember.”

I do and don’t register what I’m doing, but at the time it doesn’t seem too threatening. The whole knee issue suddenly doesn’t seem like such a big deal. I tend to become a little too relaxed when I relax at all.

So maybe drawing Trowa’s hand up to one of my nipples wasn’t a great idea at the time, but it felt good right then. I knew something was wrong when he stiffened and stopped, and a sound caught in his throat.

I opened my eyes, surprised at how calm I felt, and let him pull his hand away. But I didn’t feel rejected or panicked for once. “That feels good too,” was all I offered, and left it at that.

He drew in a quick breath when I stood up and moved to the dresser, rooting around in a drawer for something to wear. I have a tendency to fully unpack when I go away on business, since most times I’m away for long periods of time. I’m not really sure where home is anymore.

“I’m going to go change,” I say, and go into the bathroom without waiting for a response. I don’t think Trowa was going to give me one anyway.

As soon as I close the door I’m leaning heavily over the sink, breathing hard and feeling my face flush violently. The towel falls away from me, and I force myself to pull the pajamas I’ve retrieved over my body, ignoring the hard-on that I now had.

So I’m not as calm as I thought. But how can I be? Trowa is sitting out in the other room in a God damn robe and I’m in here, trying very hard not to touch myself. There’s so many ways you can betray a lover or a friend, but there’s so many more ways to betray a friend who you want as a lover. No, I am not going to jerk myself off when he’s sitting a room away. It’s not right.

So I suck it up, pull myself together and plan on a very, very long night. Maybe the sound of the rain will help me sleep. Or maybe I’m just trying to make small talk with myself so my body will stop wailing for attention.

Trowa looks up like a gunshot sounded when I open the door and deposit the wet suit I had been wearing onto the chair next to his coat. I’m careful not to expose myself fully to his view; that’s the last thing I need.

“It’s difficult to do it,” he says abruptly, fixing me with an intent look. “To... touch people...” he shook his head, as if thinking, “no... to touch you like that. It’s difficult.”

I sat down tiredly. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, looking troubled.

“Don’t worry about it,” I shrugged. I was just too tired to deal with this right now; I don’t think I’ve ever felt so exhausted in my whole life. “Some things just aren’t supposed to happen.”

“Fate,” he commented quietly, looking amused somehow. “Do you believe in fate, Quatre?”

I was too tired for this. I think I was just too tired of life in general, of endless meetings, of the never-ending stretch between misery and jubilation, between right and wrong. I suppose most people start a crusade, if they’re going on one, when they’re adults. But we were crusaders for no one and then everyone at 15, and when you go from being born and not knowing what you have, to being a teenager and being responsible for the world, to being a crusader only to lose everything... well, frankly it’s left me feeling tired.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking down at the shiny surface of the dresser. “Not really.” Something sharp stabbed through my head, and I shut my eyes tightly.

“I don’t know what to believe in anymore,” I whispered, and all but collapsed to sit down on the bed. Trowa just looked at me, and I’m not sure whether he was worried or surprised, or maybe even disappointed.

“No, I take that back,” I said through the darkness of my closed eyes and the drumming of the rain. It was so quiet right then. “I know exactly what to believe in, and what to do, but sometimes...”

“Sometimes?” he echoed, and I realized he was worried.

“Sometimes, I’m just too tired to keep on doing the right thing.”

It was a pathetic admission, a confession of sorts, to Trowa who was the last person I ever wanted to confess weakness to. But I am no longer a Gundam pilot, I am no longer as young as I once was, I am no longer as idealistic. I don’t have that freedom anymore. I don’t have the same drive, to keep on fighting in board meetings instead of the battlefield, to keep on fighting my childish emotions, and to keep on fighting Trowa.

“It’s okay,” he said, haltingly, as if he wasn’t sure what to do. But it wasn’t okay.

I didn’t answer and heard a drawer open, then felt him come and sit down next to me. My eyes were still closed, and I started a little as he wrapped a scratchy hotel blanket around my shoulders. His breath was very close to my neck, and I leaned into him, not caring as much about my insecurities that had turned into full fledged neuroses, now that the whole matter was finally out in the open. After years of trying to get rid of these emotions, of denying that I felt them, of letting a thousand rhetorical questions run through my head...

I just let my head fall onto Trowa’s shoulder, and that was that. It still rained, my head still ached, time still moved forward. The world wasn’t about to stop for us, and I never believed for a second that it would. But I think I finally knew what peace was, not for the world, not for humanity, but just for me. And that was enough.


End file.
